Scars II: Return to Rapture
by CaliforniaStop
Summary: Sequel to "The Scars of Utopia". Camille has found some semblance of normalcy in her life; although the horror of Rapture is nothing but a distant nightmare now, it has left its scars on her. When little girls start disappearing, a familiar face turns to her for help in fighting the new evil that stirs beneath the Atlantic Ocean. Camille is reluctant, but ultimately agrees.


_**A/N: **AHOY MATIES! _

_Here is the first chapter of the sequel to 'The Scars of Utopia'. My darling co-conspirator in all things _BioShock-_related, LetsSingtheDoomSong, has charged right ahead into the events of the second game and now I need to play catch up._

_I apologize for taking so long to get this published. The first chapter is always the hardest, but now I know exactly where this will go so - uni work permitting - I will be updating a little more regularly._

_I'm not entirely pleased with this chapter but I'm not sure what's wrong with it. I hope it doesn't disappoint. _

_On a side-note, I'm also working on those Fontaine/Cam ficlets that my eager anonymous reviewer wanted so I'll be posting those when I get a chance, ehehehe._

_Weh. I don't know what else needs to be said except... _

_Love it? Hate it? Would you kindly review it?_

* * *

**1967**

"Cindy. _Cindy_. Leave Mr. and Mrs. Bannock alone, it's time for _bed_."

"Oh, she's alright, Amanda."

"_Mark–_"

James Bannock chuckled and reached for the little blonde girl, drawing her onto his knee. She giggled and said, "I wanna stay awake with the growed-ups!"

"Oh, honey, I know but we're just going to talk about _boring_ things," James replied, wrinkling his nose. "You don't want to sit up for that, do you?"

"Things like Daddy's work?" Cindy Meltzer asked hopefully, tilting her head like an inquisitive little bird.

"Mmm," James hummed, exchanging a glance with the other adults, "not quite."

She pouted. "Fine," she said.

"Good girl. Give everyone a kiss and go brush your teeth. I'll be in soon to read to you," Amanda Meltzer said with a relieved smile.

The little blonde girl danced across the living room, first leaning up to give James Bannock a kiss on the cheek, then his wife, then her mother, and finally her father. "Nighty night!" she sang, and dashed out of sight. Her footsteps thumped on the stairs.

Amanda sighed.

"She's a darling," Camille Bannock said with a smile.

"You're only her _god_parents. Try being her _everyday_ parents. She's a handful," Amanda replied. "It's Mark's doing, I swear."

"Hey–!" he cried in mock-indignation.

"Well," Amanda said, "it's _true_. She's too clever for her own good and _you_ only encourage it. Do you know what we're reading at the moment? A book on _cyphers_. By that man – what's his name? Lutwidge. That's _not_ what six-year-olds should be reading."

"Mandy, it's harmless. Just a bit of fun," Mark retorted, offering his wife a sly grin.

She huffed. "_You_ say it's harmless but _I _think you're secretly training her to be a spy or something."

At that, Mark laughed. The Bannocks laughed too.

"So Camille, when are you going to join me in the Worried Mother's Club?" Amanda asked, rising to switch on the radio in the corner. Smooth, snappy jazz music filled the Meltzers' living room.

Camille's breath caught in her throat and she dropped her gaze to her lap, fingers curling in her skirt. Beside her, James shifted closer and slipped his hand over her belly. She momentarily tensed as his fingers inched towards an old, thick scar – but he knew not to touch it.

"I… soon, I hope," she replied softly. She covered her husband's hand with her own. "We've been trying but…" She took her bottom lip between her teeth and shrugged. "It's hard. I'm getting_ old_."

"It'll happen when it happens," James put in quickly. "When we stop worrying about it. Isn't that the way things go?" he added, chuckling. "As soon as you stop caring, everything comes your way."

Amanda seemed to sense that the subject was sensitive. She blinked, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to–"

"No," Camille interrupted, shaking her head, "it's fine." She smiled politely. "You're just as eager as we are."

"I just think you'd make wonderful parents, you know?"

"Thank you, Amanda. Really."

Mark stretched an arm out across the back of the sofa, a frown creasing his brow. "I don't know about bringing a child into this world _now_," he said. "The way things are going, it's terrible. First Vietnam, and now all those horrible kidnappings in Europe." He gestured to the newspaper, folded on the low coffee table. "And I tell you what, it's coming _here_ now – whatever it is," he added, gesturing to one of the headlines about a little girl who had recently gone missing from her New Jersey home. It was the third such occurrence in as many weeks.

"Mark, no, not _again_."

"No, Amanda, James is with me on this. It's terrible, right?"

James nodded. "It is. Some of the fellas at work think it's a Soviet conspiracy to indoctrinate Western children." When his wife laughed in disbelief, he added, "Well, they _are_ coastal kidnappings! The Commies have all those subs left over from the war."

"Well, it's _definitely_ not just coincidental," Mark murmured with a firm nod. "No, they're connected, somehow. I just don't know _how_ yet."

"Mark," Amanda said, throwing her husband a withering glance, "please don't bring your work home. Not tonight. I put together a wonderful dinner and I'd like to enjoy it without hearing about your _theories_."

He drew her down onto the sofa and kissed her cheek. "Alright, honey. I'll shut up about it."

"Good," she replied.

"Maybe Cindy can help you," Camille said, the corner of her mouth lifting with a small grin, "with her book of cyphers or something."

"Yes," James put in with a laugh. "Amanda's right, you _have_ been training her this whole time. To follow in Daddy's footsteps."

Mark, grinning, shook his head. "I wish," he said, then he rolled his eyes. "Amanda would forbid it."

"But it's not like you're in the field anymore," James replied with a wink. "I'm sure Cindy would be safe behind a desk. Just like Daddy."

"Hey, hey, hey," Mark warned teasingly, "don't push it, Jimmy. I'll kick you out before you get to taste the roast Mandy made."

Amanda, giggling, excused herself to put Cindy to bed.

Camille did not allow her thoughts to return to motherhood until she and James were in the car, driving home from the Meltzers' place. The car was silent, save for the gentle hum of the radio and the squeal of the steering wheel. She glanced out the window, at the passing houses and street signs. In the flash of oncoming headlights, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass, and sighed.

"Something wrong, honey?"

Her fingers instinctively went to her stomach, pressing hard, seeking out the edge of that old scar beneath the fabric of her dress. "Just thinking about what Amanda said," she replied quietly. She snorted. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm cursed."

He reached across for her hand, giving it a short squeeze. She curled her fingers against her palm, shielding the small round patch of scar tissue from his hand. Then, he pulled away and returned his hand to the steering wheel. "You're not cursed," he said.

"I'm not?" she asked flatly.

"We'll get pregnant when we get pregnant, Cammy. These things… you can't force them."

"We've been to a dozen doctors–"

"Do you want me to find another?"

"No." She sighed again and folded her hands in her lap. The scar in her stomach started to tingle; she ignored it. "No. You're probably right. It'll happen when it happens." She wanted to tell him that she hated it when he touched her belly, when his fingers accidentally brushed against the scar, when he accidentally touched _any_ of the scars on her body, but she didn't.

"Maybe Mark's right. Maybe it's not a good time to have a kid," James said with a shrug. "Until they catch whoever's kidnapping these other children, that is."

"Do you really think it is what Mark says it is? Some kind of…" She frowned, nose wrinkling. "Conspiracy?"

He glanced sideways at her. "Well, it's hard to ignore the fact that the incidents _seem_ to be related. Maybe whoever was kidnapping those children in Europe decided to move to the States. Who knows why?"

She tore her eyes away from his and stared out the window as they turned into their street. "I hope, whoever it is, they're caught soon."

"I think the government's doing everything it can. And the FBI has agents working in Europe. I'm sure it'll be solved soon, and those girls'll be returned home."

When they finally arrived back at their large, neat house, she went straight upstairs to take off her jewellery and dress. As she stared into her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she paused. Suddenly, she felt very old. For a moment, she didn't recognize herself. When had those lines around her eyes gotten there? And the faint creases in her forehead? Smiling didn't quite come as easily to her as it used to. Her eyes weren't as bright and wondering as they used to be; suddenly, they were flat, like two shards of blue glass.

She sighed and plucked the string of pearls from around her neck. This she set aside along with her bracelet and earrings. As she moved to unpin her hair from its up-do, she glanced at her wrists in the mirror's reflection. The left one was slightly crooked, and thinner than the right. Noticeably so.

She flinched as her mind supplied the weight of a cast on her left wrist and the unbearable agony of broken bones in her hands, and closed her eyes. Panic, weak and faint, twitched at the edges of her mind and she forced herself to take several deep, steady breaths. She counted to ten.

Then, she was calm again.

Later, when she was in her slip and wiping away her make-up in the bathroom, James came to her and wrapped his arms around her waist and started kissing at her neck. She giggled and slid her hands over his, holding him close.

"You looked so beautiful tonight," he murmured, lifting his face to look at their entwined bodies in the mirror above the sink.

She smirked at him. "Flatterer."

He grinned. "It's _true_." His hands slid over hers and then up along her arms.

She felt disgust rise in her as his fingers brushed carelessly over a scar, just below her shoulder. There was another one a little lower, a ragged slash from a fish-gutting hook that had been turned into a deadly projectile. Despite the therapy over the last several years, she could recall with startling clarity those moments when she had been under attack, shot and cut, and the warmth of her own blood as it soaked through the sleeve of a filthy, stolen shirt.

Closing her eyes, she inhaled slowly and focused on the comforting pressure of her husband's hands as they pulled her closer against his body. She pushed the phantom sensations of singed, stinging flesh and hot pulses of pain from her consciousness.

"Let me finish up in here," she said, turning her head to kiss at his jaw, "and I'll meet you in the bedroom."

James hummed appreciatively and kissed the end of her nose. "Don't be too long," he replied, slowly releasing her from his embrace.

She listened to the sound of the wardrobe opening, to James putting away his clothes, and then to the soft groan of the bed as he settled on it. She looked at her reflection. Her lips were stained red where she hadn't quite removed her lipstick. She raked her fingers through her hair, lightly mussing it, and then turned on her heel and followed her husband into their bedroom.

Afterwards, when his breathing was slow and steady and the arm holding her against his chest had gone limp, she gently shifted, sat up, and eventually stood. Her slip lay on the floor, discarded, along with her underwear, and she didn't bother putting anything on. Behind her, James mumbled something in his sleep and rolled onto his stomach. She examined the lines of his shoulders and back for only a moment and then went downstairs to the kitchen.

It was early in the morning and, although she could feel fingers of sleep pulling at her mind, she didn't want to return to the bedroom. It wasn't that she didn't _want_ to spend time with her husband, to curl up beside him in their bed and revel in the warmth and pressure of his body; rather, it was that some part of her _couldn't_.

With a small sigh, she poured herself a glass of water and sat, naked, at the kitchen table. Through the small window above the sink, she could see the faint yellow lights of their neighbor's porch. For a moment, she was reminded of Cindy Meltzer's blonde hair, and she found herself smiling. Faintly.

She enjoyed the quiet solitude of the kitchen; she was alone and she could just _be. _

It wasn't that she didn't love her husband. She did, very much so. He was good to her and, more than anything, he loved her _too_. But when she was with him, when they were at a friend's place for dinner or in bed together, sometimes she felt like she was just acting. Going through the motions. She knew how to behave like a good wife, like a good friend. She knew what to say, when to smile, when to laugh.

Everything she did as Mrs. Camille Bannock was not genuine, not really, because Mrs. Camille Bannock was not _whole_. She pretended that she was – and she was so good at pretending that nobody suspected anything was wrong – but the reality was far from palpable. She was not whole, she was not genuine. She _lied_, from when she first woke up in the morning beside James to when she closed her eyes at night, curled up beside him. She lied, and what was worse was that the lie was a necessity born of fear and self-loathing and a desire to be _normal_.

She wanted to be whole. She didn't _want_ to lie to her husband, or to anybody else for that matter. But the truth, the part of her that was fractured and that left her frightened and dishonest… it was tucked away, walled off, a part of her that she had forced to the recesses of her mind. It was the furthest she could get from the truth because, as much as she wanted to forget it, to erase it and leave it behind, she _couldn't_. It couldn't be erased or left behind. It was a part of her, as real as the oddly-protruding ribs she now absently rubbed with her fingertips – ribs that had once been broken and then poorly mended, ribs that now stuck out, visibly so, like pages in a book that didn't quite sit right.

That part of her that she kept hidden from everyone was trapped in time and it would not go away – _ever_. Since she had started to build a new life for herself, she had tried to block it out and soothe it with fortnightly therapy sessions with the best psychiatrist her husband's money could buy, and medications that left her numb and empty for a time. She put on her wife's mask and wrapped herself up in domestic duties in an attempt to forget about that part of her that prevented her from being whole but, if she concentrated hard enough and unwrapped the layers of disguise and acting, sometimes she caught a glimpse of the woman she used to be – a twenty-something secretary drowning in a pool full of sharks – and she realized that she could _never_ erase Camille Adler from her mind.

That naïve young woman, who had only been gone for five years, was like a memory that refused to be forgotten or a scar that refused to fade. She was a perpetual shadow that followed Mrs. Camille Bannock around, whether she liked it or not. There couldn't be one without the other. And, more than that, she made Mrs. Camille Bannock what she was today. She was a good wife _because_ she feared the alternative; she was a good friend and a good member of society because if she wasn't, she didn't want to think about where she would end up.

Probably back in the psychiatric clinic.

With a sigh, she drained her glass and began writing out a grocery list for the week.

* * *

Camille pulled smoothly into the driveway and glimpsed a thin woman on the doorstep. Despite the warmth of the day, the woman was dressed in a long dark skirt and a rumpled cardigan. She shut the car off, frowning lightly, and grabbed the paper bag of groceries from the seat beside her.

"May I help you?" she asked, stepping deftly out of her car and shifting the paper bag to her hip.

The thin woman bobbed her head, reminding Camille of a bird. "Is this the home of Mr. and Mrs. Bannock?" she asked, and her voice was laced with a soft accent. Maybe Eastern European.

"Yes." She chuckled nervously. "I'm sorry, I'm always telling my husband to put our name on the mailbox – so people can find us more easily – but it never gets done." She walked a slow, wide circle around the thin woman, inching slowly towards the front door. Something about the stranger was familiar, in a dream-like sort of way. Camille recognized her drawn face, the lank ponytail slung across one shoulder; she wasn't old, but her skin was prematurely lined – they crinkled at the corners of her eyes and banded around her mouth, making her look strung out and stressed.

"I'm sorry," she continued, fumbling for her house keys, "are you looking for my husband? He's in Manhattan today and won't be back until later tonight. I can let him know you stopped by Ms…?"

The thin woman huffed a soft sigh of laughter. "Surely you have not forgotten me, Miss Adler," she murmured, taking a hesitant step towards the blonde woman.

Camille froze. "What did you just call me?" she breathed, skin prickling despite the heat of the sun hanging overhead.

The woman smiled, tightly. Suddenly, her thinness, the sallowness of her cheeks, and her large overbright eyes were all startlingly clear to Camille. Of course, they were not as she remembered them; time had passed since she and Brigid Tenenbaum had last been together. Everything was older, a little more lined and darker. Were those streaks of grey in the German's hair? Just how much time had passed since they had last seen one another? A lifetime, it seemed.

"Ach," Tenenbaum remarked softly, nodding, "you are remembering me now, ja?"

"Yes," Camille said, her voice nothing but a squeak. She suppressed the urge to shiver, to turn away and run for the car. Instead, she focused on her breathing and tried to remain calm, level. "Why… what are you doing here? How did you _find me_?"

"Your aunt gave me details. She remembered me; strange, no?"

Camille nodded, weakly. Then, a cold hand of panic gripped her heart and she gasped. "Jack. Is he–?"

"He is fine, Miss Adler," Tenenbaum interrupted, raising a hand. "Bitte, may we speak inside?"

"O-of course."

She opened the door, directed Tenenbaum to the living room, and told her to make herself comfortable on the sofa. "Would you like a drink?" she asked.

Tenenbaum ignored the sofa and went to the mantelpiece, examining the line of picture frames there. "Nein, danke," she said, looking briefly over her shoulder to offer Camille a polite smile.

"I'm just going to put this in the kitchen," she replied, hefting the grocery bag in her arms in demonstration. Once alone, she pressed herself against the counter and bowed her head.

What was Tenenbaum doing on her doorstep, in her home? How had the German tracked her down? _Why_ was she here, after all this time? Suddenly, Camille was angry. How _dare_ Tenenbaum come into her life – her _new_ life – and ask to be a part of it? All of that, all those people from her past, were supposed to be just that: _in the past._

Still, she forced herself back to the living room. Tenenbaum was still examining picture frames and little trinkets on side-tables. "You are married now," she remarked, softly.

"Yes."

She held up a photo of James and Camille on their wedding day. "You looked lovely, Miss Adler," she said. "I'm sure it was a wonderful ceremony."

There was something unspoken in Tenenbaum's comment. Maybe she was wondering why Camille hadn't invited her or Jack or the little girls to the wedding?

"I'm married now, Dr. Tenenbaum. I'm Mrs. Bannock."

Her cheek wrinkled with a small, sad smile. "You will always be Miss Adler to me, I'm afraid."

Camille's lips twitched in what she hoped looked like a smile. _No_, she thought, moving to the sofa, _I'm not that woman anymore. Miss Adler is in the past now. _"How are you?" she asked, and the casualness in her voice almost made her cringe. It was as though they were old friends simply catching up over coffee; the reality was far more intense.

Tenenbaum sighed. "I have been better."

"How's Jack? And the girls?"

At that, the German's lips thinned. "Jack… he is well. Living normally. But the physical alterations have left their marks on him. He is prone to sickness. Sometimes I worry he will not reach old age."

Camille swallowed hard. "And did you manage to get the ADAM out of his system?"

"For the most part, ja. Some of it lingers. He had a bad bout of cancerous growths last year but they were all excised."

The thought of Jack – sweet, innocent Jack with his mental conditioning and a strip-joint whore for a mother – covered in bulbous growths and being sick, maybe dying, turned Camille's stomach. She could feel color draining from her face.

Tenenbaum sat beside her on the sofa. "The girls are doing much better," she said, smiling wanly.

"O-oh? That's good." She turned her eyes to the ceiling, mentally counting the years. "God, they must be in high school now."

"Ja." Tenenbaum's wan smile widened fractionally. "Ruth is one year from graduating."

"So they… assimilated well?"

"There were problems, Miss Adler. We knew this, though. Jack and I tried to work through them and I think we succeeded. But, sometimes, I catch the girls daydreaming and I think, are you going back to that awful place with those metal Daddies and those masked animals?" She shuddered, faintly.

"Jack must be a good father to them."

"He is. He has such a great capacity for love."

Camille nodded. Hot flares of guilt rose inside her, making her feel nauseous. She stood and began to pace, wringing her hands together. She was still wearing her driving gloves, and they were long enough to hide the noticeable differences between her wrists.

"So if Jack's okay and the girls are doing well…"

"You are wondering why I am here." Tenenbaum's eyes drifted away – an old habit she had obviously retained. She was uncomfortable. Suddenly she asked, "May I smoke?"

"Of course. Let me get you an ashtray."

While Tenenbaum fiddled with her book of matches, Camille continued to pace. She couldn't get thoughts of Jack out of her mind. She couldn't get the eerie songs of the Little Sisters out of her ears.

"You do not smoke anymore," Tenenbaum remarked, dragging heavily on her cigarette.

"No. I gave it up a few years ago. I picked it up in–" She bit her lip, shook her head. "And my doctor says it may help my husband and I conceive."

"Ach, you would like a child?" Tenenbaum smiled. "But of course. Marriage, a beautiful home in the suburbs… What a perfect life you have, Miss Adler. Out of all of us who escaped, you have come out on top it seems."

"I don't want a child."

Tenenbaum cocked her head, frowning. "You… don't?"

"No." Camille swallowed. There was a familiar pressure building behind her eyes. She laughed, suddenly, an involuntary reflex. "I _tell_ everyone I want a child. I tell my husband I want one. We keep trying but nothing happens. The doctors we go to say it will happen when it happens but… I've been to my own doctor. He says it's impossible for me to conceive. There's something wrong. I haven't told my husband. I keep… _lying_ to him about it. I keep it a secret, from everyone."

Tenenbaum's frown deepened. "I am very sorry to hear that."

"I'm not."

"I don't understand..?"

Camille folded her arms over her stomach. She sighed. "I'm _relieved_. Me, with a _kid_? No. I could think of nothing worse. I don't… I don't _deserve_ that. I don't have the right to bring a child into this world." She clenched her jaw and pressed her fingers into her stomach, hard. "Not after what I… _facilitated_."

"You are blaming yourself for those Little Sisters?" Tenenbaum questioned softly.

"No. Not entirely. I blame a lot of people for all that. You. Andrew Ryan. Suchong."

_Frank Fontaine._

She stiffened, shoulders hunching. "But I'm sure I could have stopped it at some point. And I didn't. I let it happen. So now I'm being punished by some kind of karma." She fixed Tenenbaum with a cold stare, the corners of her mouth tightening with a humourless smile. "It's like a curse. But I don't see it that way, not really. It's not a curse. It's a _blessing_."

Tenenbaum considered her with a sideways glance, cigarette hanging loosely between two fingers. She seemed to weigh something up in her mind, a response, and then sighed and crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray. "You have become so defensive since we last saw each other. So prickly."

"Can you blame me?" Camille snapped. "I was too trusting in the past. And where did that get me?" She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Dr. Tenenbaum. I don't _mean_ to be this way."

"I know," she replied softly. "Rapture has done strange things to us all."

Hearing the name of the underwater colony made Camille tense, fingers wringing together. Since returning to the surface, she hadn't referred to it by name – it was always _the incident_ or _that old city_. To give it a name made it real, and she didn't want that.

Tenenbaum gestured to the newspaper on the low coffee table. "Such terrible news," she murmured, frowning as her eyes dashed across the headline. "Another kidnapping."

"It's awful," Camille agreed. She perched on the sofa, a little way off from the German, and reached for the paper. A little girl, only seven, had been snatched from her home in Rhode Island on the weekend. Further up the coast, a pair of five-year-old twins had gone missing in Maine.

"It won't stop," Tenenbaum intoned darkly.

Camille felt her skin crawl. "Don't say that. It _will_. The FBI is working non-stop. My husband says that there are several leads the authorities are following."

"Nein." Tenenbaum twisted so as to look Camille square in the face. "It won't stop. They are looking in all the wrong places. They are looking on the _land_."

Camille frowned. The scientist's tone of voice chilled her, for reasons she couldn't understand. "Of course they're searching on land. Where else would they look?" she demanded.

"You know where, Miss Adler."

A beat.

Then, she said, "You're crazy."

Tenenbaum merely shrugged.

Camille considered what Tenenbaum's words meant. Little girls being taken, not by an evil lurking on land, but beneath the ocean. It was laughable. It was insane. It was nightmarish. "No," she said, shaking her head. "We… we shut Rapture down. It's finished. All of it!" The word – _Rapture_ – left a bitter taste at the back of her throat. She suppressed a shudder.

"Apparently not," Tenenbaum murmured. "Those girls are being taken for a _reason_."

Suddenly, Camille felt angry. Tenenbaum was ruining the harmony of her new life, making her think back to a time when she had been surrounded by children with eerie yellow eyes, drinking genetic goop from corpses. She clenched her fists; the leather of her gloves rubbed against the scars in her palms. "And what is _your_ reasoning behind this? Are you sure you're just not wracked by guilt about what you did? You're projecting, Dr. Tenenbaum. You did _horrible_ things to little girls a long time ago and now–"

"And now I am recognizing myself in the kidnapper," Tenenbaum replied, surprisingly sharply.

"What the hell do you mean?"

The German lit another cigarette. "The girls that are being selected…" She closed her eyes. "I recognize what is being done because _I _have done it. Selected certain characteristics. All the children are young, yes? That is because ADAM slug takes better to them. Their bodies are fresh and malleable. And no boys have been taken either. Interesting, ja? Slugs bond better to girls… No kidnappings inland. They have all lived on the coast, for easy access." She gave Camille a significant look. "I do not know how much more evidence you want."

Camille's throat felt dry. She swallowed, hard. "But…"

_No_. _None of this was right. It was supposed to have _ended_. It was supposed to have ended in 1960! _

"But you're the only one left who knows about the Little Sisters' conditioning."

_Right? It was Suchong and Tenenbaum, and he's dead and who else knew about it? Ryan did. He's dead. Fontaine did. He's dead. I know, too. So does Tenenbaum._

"Someone has restarted the program, Miss Adler. Obviously there is some intelligence than lingers in that godforsaken city. Gil Alexander, I suspect. I do not know his fate although he was quite safe inside the labs at Fontaine Futuristics. I know I left notes in the labs, recordings. It would not be hard for someone to begin the experiments again."

"Oh. Right. Gil." Camille's shoulders slumped. "I don't… I don't think he was killed but I don't know. I left–" _And joined with Atlas, who turned out to be Fontaine in disguise_. Suddenly, she desperately needed a cigarette, but if James smelled smoke on her clothes and in her hair… "So," she said, forcing her voice to be level, "let's say that, hypothetically, these girls _are_ being kidnapped because someone wants them to-to process ADAM again… why?"

"ADAM is a powerful leash, Miss Adler. Whoever has it, whoever controls the flow of it in the city, is God."

Camille nodded, slowly. It made sense, in its own horribly twisted way. She sighed and tossed the newspaper to the floor, out of sight. "That city will implode sooner or later," she said with a scowl. "It was never supposed to last. Ryan just couldn't see that."

Tenenbaum grabbed the blonde woman's hand. "I cannot wait for that time to come," she said, features tightening.

Camille's first instinct was to wrench her hand away. Tenenbaum's fingers dug hard into her hand, pressing into her skin, threatening to touch her scars. Instead, she held the German's steady, piercing gaze and simply said, "I don't know what you mean."

"I am going after those girls. They need to be rescued."

"What–?" Camille breathed. Now, she really did fight to free her hand, but Tenenbaum tightened her grip.

"I have already made plans to travel back to Rapture. Those girls have been removed – _stolen_ – from their families because of a poison that I formulated a long time ago. They weigh heavily on my conscience, Miss Adler. They are being turned into those… _things_ again. They are down there, seeking out angels to play with. Being bonded to those metal men. They are _my_ responsibility. I had thought, when we left, that it was all over but I was wrong. Ryan and Fontaine died but they were merely the head of the weed. We must go deeper if we are to kill it entirely."

"_We_…" Camille echoed, then she ripped her arm away from Tenenbaum and shuffled back on the sofa. "No!"

"Miss Adler–"

"No!" Camille barked. Her shoulders hunched; she was beginning to tremble. "How dare you, come into _my_ home and feed me this- this _insanity_?"

"You know I am right, Miss Adler." Tenenbaum did not flinch beneath Camille's enraged gaze. "You know I am right, and you know that only _we_ can stop this."

Camille could feel something tight and crippling pressing down on her chest. She bit down on a dry-sob, turned her face away. Panic was plucking at her mind, her heart. She shuddered. "No. I can't. I won't."

"Miss Adler, _bitte_! More girls will continue to suffer–"

The plea in the German's words broke something inside Camille.

"_I_ suffered!" she shrieked, leaping to her feet. Her fists clenched at her sides and she felt tears pooling on her lower lids. They were tears of fear and hatred – tears she hadn't shed in a long time. "I _fucking_ suffered in that _hellhole_! I-I–" She fought to master herself, to win against the cold numbness spreading across her chest and the trembling of her limbs. "Do you know what happened to me? _Hmm_? Do you know what that _city_ did to me?"

Tenenbaum's voice was low as she said, "I have an idea."

"It almost _destroyed_ me. I-I _tried_ to go back to normal. I _tried_. I found a job – and I lost it because of the panic attacks. There were days I couldn't even get out of _bed_. I-I saw a psychiatrist for a long time and h-he told me I was _projecting fantasy. _Oh," Camille spat, "I told him _all_ about Rapture. I told him _all_ about it! And he thought I was _lying_. He thought I was _crazy_. He recommended I go to a _clinic_ – a fucking _clinic_, like I was a _loony_!"

She paced, wildly, tears streaming down her cheeks, unchecked. "I stayed there – for _two fucking years_. Do you know what that does to a person? _Everything_ was under the control of doctors. My meals, my sleep, my _clothes_. I-I was on so many medications. Everyone _knew_ that I was the _crazy bitch_ who talked about the underwater city and people shooting fucking _bees _out of their hands." She folded her arms over her chest, hugging herself, tucking her chin against her shoulder. "I was on medication but it wasn't working and t-they gave me electroshock therapy."

She snarled at Tenenbaum. "Did you fucking hear me? They _electrocuted_ me." She laughed, hysterically. "They electrocuted me and I _liked_ it. I liked it because I thought, why else would I be here if I _wasn't_ crazy? I must be crazy! And this will help me! I'll stop having nightmares about splicers on the ceiling and drowning in some tunnel collapse and F-Frank fucking Fontaine _stabbing_ me."

Tenenbaum looked away, the corners of her mouth tightening with a frown.

"I-I didn't want to _think_ about it anymore. I just wanted to be _normal_. I just wanted to forget about _everything_!" Camille continued, her voice a low hiss. "That city took _everything_ from me: my _life_, my _family_, my _sanity_ – I used to wish I had _died_ down there, just so I wouldn't have to choke down another pill. I w-wanted them to lobotomize me at one point. I thought, if I can't feel anything, it won't hurt anymore and the pain won't matter and maybe I won't _care_ that I've got nothing left except- except _scars_!"

"But you _survived_ it, Miss Adler. Mein Gott, look at you – you are the most normal out of everybody! You have put it all behind you!" Tenenbaum cried, exasperated. "Bitte, do not think that I want to ruin this harmony in which you live. I too have suffered after leaving Rapture – but my suffering is my conscience, Miss Adler. I cannot escape it with medication and therapists. It is with me forever, unless I _do something about it_."

Camille, nostrils flaring, eyes wide and watery, shivered.

"You're going to have to find someone else to help you," she said, voice cracking. "I can't. I _won't_. This – my new life – is too important to me. I _need_ it. I need to be normal, Dr. Tenenbaum. I-I'm not that person anymore – _Camille Adler_ – whoever she was. I-I cook dinner for my husband and I like gardening and I am not going to jeopardize this for _anything_. I _can't_. I won't recover again. I'm barely holding on as it is – there are so many prescriptions upstairs in the bathroom, and I've got to see a psychiatrist twice a week…" Her voice caught at the admission.

She shook her head, eyes closing. "I'm sorry about the Little Sisters. I really am. But…"

"No," Tenenbaum interrupted, standing. "I understand. I did not come here expecting you to jump so eagerly at the idea. I just – well, you are the only one left who understands. Who knows what is at stake."

_No, _Camille thought. _Somewhere down in that city – if it's even still standing – are Jamie and Sinclair._

She walked Tenenbaum to the front door and bade her farewell.

"If you need to speak with me, Miss Adler," the German said, reaching into the pocket of her cardigan for a small card, "I am staying here."

Camille crushed the card in her fist and nodded. "Yes, I will," she replied noncommittally. She forced a smile and watched Tenenbaum walk away. Then, alone, she sat on the sofa and peeled her driving gloves off. She examined the scars in her palms, the scars littering her arms, the awkward, jutting angle of her left wrist, and she hung her head and wept.


End file.
